Saint's Blood

by Sebastien de Castell

  ‘Hells, six days . . .’

  ‘Doctor Histus offered to draw you a diagram of the vital organs in your body and the exact distance by which Undriel’s smallsword missed them.’

  ‘Kind of him,’ I said. Histus. That explains the poor bandaging, anyway. ‘Why didn’t Ethalia tend to my wounds?’ Then I remembered the circumstances that had got me into this state. ‘Saints . . . is Birgid—?’

  ‘Still alive, so far as we know,’ Kest replied. ‘Ethalia’s been working day and night to heal her.’ He paused for a moment, then admitted, ‘Falcio, Saint Birgid hasn’t woken in all that time. Her injuries aren’t healing.’

  I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to focus and clear the fog from my head so I could concentrate on the matters at hand. Instead, I found myself remembering my first meeting with Birgid – how disturbingly beautiful and youthful she’d appeared, glowing with a power that had filled me with both awe and trepidation. Then the images in my mind shifted to how she’d looked when I’d last seen her, just a few days ago, her hair matted and filthy, trapped behind an iron mask, shoulders and arms covered in tiny cuts that were somehow . . . precise. Planned. This was a careful and meticulous kind of cruelty.

  ‘Falcio?’ The voice was Kest’s, but it sounded very far away so I ignored it.

  I stumbled a little, my hand grabbing onto the foot of the bed as my thoughts shifted again. Now it wasn’t Birgid I was remembering, but myself, bound to the split tree in the clearing those eight days and nights as the Dashini Unblooded tormented my flesh, my mind, my soul. Stop, I told myself. Breathe. Focus. Think about Birgid.

  I considered the possibility that somehow there were still Dashini out there and that they had captured Birgid and performed the Lament upon her, but her torture had obviously been different . . . blunter, somehow.

  ‘Falcio, you should rest,’ Kest said. His hand was gripping my arm and I realised that he was holding me up.

  ‘There’s any number of things that Falcio should do,’ Brasti said. ‘But only one thing he’s going to do.’

  For some reason, that brought me back and I opened my eyes to see Brasti staring at me. I started to speak but he stopped me, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘No, please, allow me.’ He stuck a finger in the air and jutted his chin up and to the right, as though staring at some far-off horizon. ‘“Though I am grievous injured, I, Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the Greatcoats and most beloved of the King, must now, in defence of our most sacred ideals, demonstrate my unyielding duty – not to mention, ego – and investigate this most heinous act!”’

  ‘I don’t talk anything like that.’

  Kest looked at me and raised his eyebrows a hair.

  ‘Oh, the hells for the both of you,’ I said, and surveyed the room to find my clothes, reasoning it probably wouldn’t help anyone for me to wander about naked except for my bandages. Near the bed where I’d awoken was an old wooden crate that was serving as a side table. I dressed slowly, careful not to fall over and embarrass myself in front of Kest and Brasti. After the manner in which I’d been woken, though, I felt justified in making them wait.

  I finished by slipping my rapiers into their scabbards and took a slow, stiff walk around the dingy room, leaning periodically against the empty beds that emitted the musty smell of disuse. Under each one lay a plain, wooden coffin.

  ‘All right, let’s go,’ I said. Then another question occurred to me. ‘Where the hells am I?’

  *

  ‘Welcome to the Martyrium of Saint Werta-who-walks-the-waves,’ Kest said as he led us out through the double doors and into the bright sunlight, ‘in all her dubious glory.’

  Broken remnants of single-storey buildings gave sad greetings, their crumbling and dirty white sandstone walls overtaken by vines and tall weeds and now listing like weary sentries over the wreckage of roofs long ago caved in.

  ‘Not exactly a palace of the divine, is it?’ Brasti asked.

  Having seldom taken much interest in the Gods, and even less in their chosen representatives on earth (or at least in Tristia), I’d never spent much time in our holy places, so I didn’t have much of a frame of reference to go on. ‘Where’s the sanctuary?’ I asked, assuming that’s where I’d find Birgid and Ethalia.

  Kest pointed to an overgrown path behind me and a larger, six-walled building with a smooth dome about a dozen yards away. It stood on a slight angle, as if the ground on one side was growing tired of supporting its weight. It was ringed by the limbless and headless remains of what once must have been commanding statues of each of Tristia’s deities.

  ‘The Gods have seen better days,’ I said.

  Brasti kicked a marble hand holding a hammer that had probably belonged to Craft, or Mestiri, as he’s sometimes known here in the south. ‘Inspiring, isn’t it?’ he asked, balancing on top of what was left of a carved head that had rolled along the ground and ended its journey against the stump of a dead tree. If the God of Making was troubled by Brasti’s blasphemy, he gave no sign.

  I turned to Kest. ‘Why bring Birgid here? Surely she could have received better care at the Ducal Palace?’

  ‘Duchess Ossia’s clerics demanded it,’ he replied. ‘They said. “A Saint can only be healed under the protection of the Gods, not in the false comfort and vain opulence of a secular palace”.’

  Not that clerics have ever objected to living in that same comfort and opulence . . . ‘And Valiana went along with that?’

  ‘She needs Duchess Ossia’s support, and the Duchess needs the clerics.’

  ‘No one much cared about what we thought,’ Brasti added. ‘They weren’t even going to let Ethalia travel with her unt—’

  Kest gave him a sharp look and he went silent.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  Kest hesitated, then said, ‘One of the clerics was insisting Ethalia was . . . unclean. He grabbed her wrist rather forcefully.’ He carefully ignored Brasti. ‘Someone decided to shoot an arrow about a hair’s-breadth from the cleric’s hand, and might have followed up with some rather . . . elaborate threats. It triggered something of a diplomatic incident. Neither the clerics nor Duchess Ossia were pleased.’

  I looked at Brasti, who didn’t look even the faintest bit embarrassed. ‘You were unconscious, and everybody else was useless. So I asked myself, “What would Falcio do in this situation?” and I thought, “Well, he’d draw a weapon and make some kind of dramatic pronouncement, wouldn’t he?”’

  It’s hard to know what to say to something like that, so I just said, ‘Come here.’

  He looked up at me, eyes narrowed. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Just come here.’

  He did, slowly, warily as if he thought I might hit him. When he got close enough I grabbed him in both arms and hugged him. See, the thing about Brasti’s idea of friendship is, it’s completely unconstrained by logic or forethought. He doesn’t stop to wonder about the consequences of his actions. He just does whatever it is he thinks you’d want him to do for you in that situation. ‘Some days I love you,’ I said.

  He started patting me awkwardly on the back. ‘Um . . . all right. Let’s not make a thing of it, shall we?’

  I found myself laughing for the first time since this latest mess began. I let him go and turned to Kest. ‘So in the six days I’ve been unconscious, the Saint of Mercy has slipped into a coma, we’ve been consigned to some half-deserted martyrium and Brasti has shot a cleric.’

  ‘I barely grazed the skin of his hand,’ Brasti clarified. ‘He’s still perfectly capable of praying. Maybe even more so, now.’

  ‘There’s actually one more thing,’ Kest said, and led the way down a path that went around the side of the sanctuary. Through the sparse growth of trees we could see the main gates of the martyrium, where a great crowd of people covered the grassy field outside. Some were huddling around makeshift tents, others were kneeling by the gates with their hands clasped together, and many just stood there, staring through the gates. None of them looked very happy.r />
  CHAPTER NINE

  The Evidence

  ‘Who in all the hells are they?’ I asked, staring at the mass of humanity outside the martyrium.

  ‘Pilgrims, if you can believe it,’ Brasti replied. ‘Around a hundred of them.’

  ‘Word of the attack on Birgid spread quickly,’ Kest added. ‘People from all over the Duchy have been coming here – some are praying for her blessing and some are protesting.’

  ‘Protesting what?’

  Brasti snorted. ‘Whatever the nearest cleric is telling them to protest.’ He pointed at a man in dirty orange robes standing in the centre of a particularly large group. ‘That one appears to think the attack on Birgid is a conspiracy by the Greatcoats to destroy the Saints.’

  Of course, because when in doubt, blame a Greatcoat.

  ‘You can’t really fault them on that, can you?’ a voice called out from behind us and Jillard, Duke of Rijou, resplendent in a purple and silver coat, his black hair freshly oiled and looking entirely out of place, walked through the overgrown vegetation to join us. ‘After all, by my count you’ve killed not one but two Saints of Swords now.’

  I always find it difficult to think of what to say to a man who’s tried on multiple occasions to have me killed and who still has no compunction about inserting himself into my affairs. ‘You look . . . well, your Grace,’ I said finally.

  ‘You look much as you always do, Falcio,’ Jillard replied. ‘Beaten, bloody, and confused by the world.’

  Damn – why does he always sound so much cleverer than I do? ‘While I’m gratified at your concern for my wellbeing, I’m rather busy at the—’

  ‘I rather thought you might want to have a little chat about this.’ The Duke took a cloth bundle from inside his coat. He unwrapped it, letting the cloth drift down to the ground, and revealed a rough, curved piece of black and grey metal: the mask that Birgid had worn. ‘Remarkable the things people leave lying around during a crisis,’ he said reflectively.

  I glared at Kest, who returned what passes for a sheepish expression from him, which is to say, no sign of embarrassment whatsoever. ‘I was a bit occupied trying to keep you from bleeding out on the courtroom floor at the time.’

  I would have expected Jillard to take the opportunity to make some further comment on our ineptitude, but instead his stare was deadly serious. ‘Do you have any idea what I’m holding, First Cantor?’

  Why is it that whenever people use my title it sounds like they’re impugning my intellect? ‘Normally I’d say it was stolen evidence, your Grace.’

  Jillard ignored my fatuous comment and handed me the mask. He waited in silence as I looked it over. The surface was rough, beaten into shape by the hard strikes of a hammer, lacking any notable signs of artistry or craft. And yet the clasping mechanism on the side was finely and carefully designed.

  Someone cared a lot more about how well the mask closed and held than how it looked.

  I turned the mask over in my hand. The left side was partially broken off – at first I thought that was where Kest’s blade had come down, then I realised the clasps he’d smashed were on the other side. I handed it to him and asked, ‘How did this happen?’

  Kest leaned in to examine the bent and jagged break. ‘This wasn’t from a single blow,’ he said. ‘Look at all the dozens of small dents. I suspect she struck her head against some sort of stone surface, repeatedly, trying to get it off.’

  That image put a knot in my gut, so I focused my attention on the mask itself. On closer examination it wasn’t completely without design: the lines carved into its surface made the shape of terrified eyes, though there were no holes there: anyone wearing this would be blind to the world. Similar carvings formed the shape of a mouth, opened wide in a mad, endless scream. Three tiny slits no more than an inch high had been punched through there, and when I examined the back, I saw a small funnel had been welded into it. So anyone wearing the mask would have had that funnel jammed into their mouth. They’d be unable to speak, or to prevent themselves from swallowing anything that was poured into the slits.

  I glanced at Jillard. ‘This looks like something a sadist would devise. Perhaps you could tell me what it is?’

  ‘It’s called a mask of infamy,’ the Duke replied. There was no sign that he had caught my insult.

  ‘A tool for torture?’

  This time Jillard hesitated before answering, ‘Yes and no. Some form of torture is usually involved, but the primary use of the mask is to ensure anonymity.’

  ‘You mean, so people don’t know who’s wearing it?’ Brasti asked.

  ‘No,’ I said, my eyes still on the Duke, ‘the victim can’t see or hear with the mask on – it’s designed so that they’d never know who tortured them, isn’t it? But why would—?’

  ‘You’re asking the wrong question,’ Jillard said. His voice was full of arrogant annoyance, and yet there was something else not far underneath. Concern. Worry. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on any more than I did. ‘This,’ he said, pointing to the funnel welded inside the mask. ‘This isn’t part of any mask of infamy I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Maybe it’s there so they can poison the victim?’ Brasti suggested. ‘Or to make sure they can’t talk?’

  ‘Putting a blade through the wearer’s heart would be surer and require less effort,’ Kest pointed out. ‘Why go to the extra trouble?’

  I turned the mask over in my hands, looking at the primitive, almost ritualistic carvings, then at the more carefully constructed clasps on the sides. The absence of holes for the eyes meant that Birgid’s tormentor thought there might be some chance of her escaping. No doubt a Saint with powers like hers would be hard to keep captive. So why not just kill her, if that was the desired end? I thought back to the cuts on her skin. Were they part of the torture? They weren’t very deep, nor would they be the best way to inflict pain. Again and again I found myself staring at that obscene iron funnel welded to the inside of the mask. What had they forced her to drink? And to what end?

  Jillard gave a not-quite-polite cough, making me realise I’d been standing there in silence for some time. ‘The Ducal Council has asked that I convey to you their outrage at this horrendous crime.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have the Dukes being outraged, can we?’ Brasti mocked.

  ‘In fact, no, you can’t,’ Jillard replied. ‘You are hereby informed that under the terms of the Council’s agreement with the Greatcoats, you will herewith enforce the Laws of Tristia by finding the guilty parties and bringing them to trial without delay.’

  ‘Birgid is one of the most powerful Saints in Tristia,’ Kest said. ‘We have no idea what kind of person would be capable of this act. How exactly does the Council propose we go about finding the culprits, let alone arresting them?’

  The Duke smiled. ‘Oh, we don’t really. In fact, we rather think there’s a decent chance that whoever did this will finally be able to put an end to what remains of the Greatcoats.’

  I sighed, though it felt more like the air was draining out of me. I was tired, and weeks from being fully recovered from my injuries. I don’t want this, I thought. My job is to see the King’s daughter on the throne, to find the rest of the Greatcoats and bring some semblance of the law back to this damnable country. Gods and Saints are well beyond my jurisdiction.

  I should have handed the mask back to Jillard and told him and the Ducal Council to find some other fool to saddle with this problem, but my dream of Aline and Paelis came back to me. ‘Step by step, Falcio, it’s all being taken away from us.’ Was that simply a hallucination that came with losing too much blood too fast, or had my fevered mind put something more together?

  What does it mean, that someone is able to do this to a Saint?

  ‘Terrific,’ Brasti said, shattering my concentration.

  ‘What?’

  I turned to see him strapping his bow over his shoulder. ‘If you could see your face right now you wouldn’t ask.’ He started off down the path b
etween buildings that led back to the cathedral, then called back, ‘Let’s go and see how merciful Saint Birgid feels when we try to wake her up, shall we?’

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Six Doors

  ‘Why are there six doors?’ I asked, walking the perimeter of the building. I’ve learned not to make a habit of running into buildings without checking the entrances and exits first.

  ‘Technically, this is a cathedral, not a sanctuary,’ Kest replied. ‘Supplicants go through the door dedicated to the deity whose intervention they seek.’

  Brasti stopped to lean against the stone buttocks of the broken statue dedicated to Purgeize, God of War. Or they might have belonged to Coin. I’ve never made an extensive study of the subject of Gods’ buttocks. ‘What difference does it make when the doors all go into the same cathedral?’ he asked.

  I chose the door behind the statue of Love, or Phenia as she’s sometimes called in the south. I didn’t expect her to be particularly helpful to our cause, but she was by and large the least offensive of the available options for worship.

  I passed through the inner arch of the door to find the tiny cathedral in surprisingly good condition, given the crumbling state of the exterior. The domed roof rising some thirty feet above the building was largely intact, and a circular window at the top directed light into the upper chamber, spreading out onto the six coloured walls of the hexagonally shaped building.

  ‘What are the bells for?’ Brasti asked, pointing to the six-inch-high brass fixtures that were attached to each wall.

  ‘The cleric rings them in preparation for prayer. Each particular God has a different set of bells,’ Kest replied. He walked over to one of the walls and pointed to a bare oval patch underneath the bell. ‘There should be a large cameo here, depicting the relevant God.’

  I glanced around the room. All the cameos had been removed, though I couldn’t tell if it’d been theft or vandalism. I turned my attention to the centre of the cavernous room and the opening in the floor, ringed by a wooden banister, that led down the winding stone stairs of the passari deo: the dark passage that led to the main chapel some twenty feet below.